


Someone to Watch Over Me

by AnnieforSimonsflower



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Drama, Erotica, Explicit Language, F/M, Heterosexual Sex, Mystery, The Quidditch Pitch: Erotic Couplings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-13
Updated: 2007-01-13
Packaged: 2018-10-27 19:45:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10815483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnieforSimonsflower/pseuds/AnnieforSimonsflower
Summary: When Harry Potter returns after fifteen years with few explanations as to his whereabouts, Hermione Granger isn't exactly overjoyed to see him.  At first.





	Someone to Watch Over Me

**Author's Note:**

> This story is archived on behalf of Simons_flower, who passed away in 2009, by her designated archivist.

  
Author's notes: HP ABCs (table [here](http://hp.simonsflower.net/abcs.htm) || [here](http://simons-flower.livejournal.com/288368.html) || [here](http://fics-by-flower.livejournal.com/22119.html)).  This one is [](http://tome-raider.livejournal.com/profile)[**tome_raider**](http://tome-raider.livejournal.com/)’s request:  Z – Zeal.

[**zeal**](http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/zeal)  n.   Enthusiastic devotion to a cause, ideal, or goal and tireless diligence in its furtherance; [**zealous**](http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/zealous)  adj.  ardently active, devoted, or diligent; [](http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/zealot)**zealot**   n.  a fervent and even militant proponent of something.  


* * *

** Someone to Watch Over Me **

I suppose no one can pinpoint the day their life will change when it's happening, that identifying the moment has to be done in retrospect. I think I can safely say that twice in my life I've been able to say "this will change my life" as the event was happening and both times centered around Harry James Potter. When I was twelve, he helped rescue me from a Mountain Troll. More than twenty years later, he rescued me from myself.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

_Wednesday, 31 July 2013_

 

As is usual for me, I have my own celebration early in the morning of Harry's birthday even though he disappeared fifteen years ago a month after defeating Voldemort. He's contacted no one in that time. Ron reminds me every year that he could be dead, but neither of us fell that was the case. Harry had been too alive to die.

 

Ron rings me at lunch, partly to make sure I eat and partly because we always spend time together on Harry's birthday. Lunch is nothing memorable though I do get the chance to catch up with Ron. We were together -- even married for a while -- but all that fizzled between us several years ago. While we spend time together now, we're not as close as we were when there were three of us, or even when he and I were newlyweds.

 

Charlotte, my secretary, can smell the alcohol on my breath when I return from lunch, but merely rolls her eyes. She knows what July 31 means. Hell, the entire Wizarding world knows what July 31 means despite Harry's disappearance. She's discreet enough to not say anything and to cut my afternoon workload to account for my alcohol intake.

 

I would like to say that I'm doing something useful, but with each year I'm mired in the Ministry bureaucracy, I become more disillusioned. My campaign to free the house elves was derailed before it even began when someone finally pointed out to me that freed elves usually go insane within five years. Dobby's continued existence has been chalked up to his bond with Harry. The knowledge put quite a dent in my sails.

 

I've mounted several campaigns for the bestiary since then and all have failed. Sometimes due to my own zeal at pushing for change, sometimes due to extreme apathy by the Ministry or by the Wizarding world. More often than not, all three. Even those in my department who are supposed to help me and support my aims find me more of a novelty than a trailblazer. Every misstep is chalked up to being a Muggle-born -- and is usually recited with derision.

 

I leave the Ministry early, just past four, to avoid the crowds that gather and gawk. The only day worse for Ron and I is Remembrance Day, June 20. The crowds and reporters become a mob in Diagon Alley, one that sometimes spills into Muggle London. The Obliviators hate June 21. I stopped talking to the reporters after the second anniversary, lasting a year longer than Ron in my tolerance for their lies and half-truths.

 

Thankfully, I'm able to avoid all attention this July 31 by taking the Tube home. The rocking of the train, combined with my nearly liquid lunch, makes me drowsy enough that I nearly miss my stop. Cursing myself -- I couldn't be married to Ron for four years and friends for many more and not learn to curse -- I drag myself and my rucksack home.

 

To unlock my door, I dump everything on the doorstep. Normally, my bag and robes are neat and tidy when I step off the train. Due to drowsiness, I wasn't able to organize myself and feel very ruffled as a result. I don't like feeling ruffled, knowing my things are out of place.

 

Once I have the door unlocked with both key and spell, I kick my bag inside, tossing my robes in afterward. My bag tumbles once, spilling pens and quills as my robe hits the back of a chair, then slithers to the floor.

 

"Damn!" I mutter. Nothing about this day has gone right.

 

"I didn't know Hermione Granger knew how to curse," a deep voice says from the shadows of my living room.

 

Pulling my wand, I cast _Lumos_ at the same time the intruder turns on the table lamp. Lit in the illumination of the two sources, a man is visible. He's sitting in my favorite chair, the one I curl up in to read novels. There's something about him that seems familiar, but I can't quite place it.

 

"Who _are_ you?" I demand, wand at the ready.

 

"I know it's been a while, but has it really been that long?" he asks, standing. A flick of his wand turns on the overhead lights.

 

Despite the sudden shift from near-dark to bright light, his eyes are wide open rather than squinted like mine. They're an emerald green I'd recognize anywhere, despite the lack of glasses. _Holy...._

 

" _Harry_?"

 

He grins. After all this time, all he does is grin. I want to hex him and hug him all at the same time; I'm not sure which I want to do first. Unsure of myself and my reaction, I stand still as if rooted to the floor. Then I become aware of what he looks like and what he's wearing.

 

If it weren't for the eyes, I don't know if I'd recognize him. He certainly is no longer the perpetually-underfed boy I went to school with. He's grown at least another two inches from when I last saw him and has filled out. Has he ever filled out. I'd like to think he stepped into the black jeans he has on, but they look as if they've been painted on his legs. Both hands are now back in the pockets of his brown bomber jacket, though I'm sure he's still clutching his wand just in case. Whereas before he left, he had a wiry build, he's now broad and while not as bulky as Ron, he certainly fills out the shoulders and chest of the jacket and black t-shirt he's wearing.

 

_What happened to him?_ I ask myself, not sure if I mean just physically or his disappearance as well.

 

"Hello, Hermione," he says softly. Now that I know who it is, I can tell that his voice has deepened as well.

 

The person that stands before me is not the grown-up boy I've imagined but a man.

 

"How did you get in here?" I demand, going on the offensive. "After fifteen years, you break into my flat and all you say is 'Hello, Hermione'?" I don't want to sound like a shrew, but I'm afraid I do with how much my voice has risen in those few words.

 

He takes two steps toward me, but I stop him with my wand leveled at his head. He pulls his hands from his pockets slowly, raising them to show he doesn't have his wand or any other weapon. Not that he needs a physical weapon given that I'm sure he's learned wandless magic by now.

 

"Your wards and locks need upgrading," he replies. "It was easy to get in."

 

I scoff. "I can see that. I had Bill set the wards." Of course, that was when Ron and I were still married, so they may have deteriorated since then. I should have considered that before now.

 

"They need upgrading," he repeats softly. "Are you going to continue to hold me at wandpoint or can we talk?"

 

I put my wand away. If he's skilled enough to break into my flat, I'm sure I wouldn't be able to cast a disabling hex fast enough to stop him. And it's _Harry_.

 

"Why are you here?" I ask, leading him into the kitchen.

 

He takes a seat at the table, moving the chair to the left as he does. It takes me several moments to realize he moved it so he could both see out the window and through the doorway into the hall from the new vantage point. I don't mention it, not sure if it's paranoia or something else.

 

"Can't I visit an old friend?" he teases, nodding thanks at the glass of pumpkin juice I set in front of him.

 

I settle across from him. "Not after fifteen years."

 

Many things go unsaid in the subtle tension that rises between us at my words. I don't make accusations about him abandoning us, nor do I demand to know what he's been doing. Despite everything, the man across from me is nearly a stranger.

 

He tips his head to the side, just slightly, as if changing perspectives to study me. Straightening both his head and his posture, no longer does he look like a relaxed man visiting a friend. He now looks like a man with a specific mission. The change is almost instantaneous, which I'm not sure if it bothers me or startles me more.

 

"You're getting death threats," he says, placing his hands flat on the table and splaying his fingers. I idly note there is no ring on his left hand, nor any evidence there has ever been a ring there. I know that were I to look at my own left hand, there would be a slight indentation at the base of the fourth finger there.

 

"That's nothing new," I reply, narrowing my eyes at him. "Why do death threats against me concern you?"

 

Hurt flashes in his eyes, gone almost before I see it. "I've been assigned to protect you."

 

"What?" My hands curl into fists. This has to be a joke. After fifteen years without any type of contact with me, Ron or the Wizarding world, Harry Potter breaks into my flat to _protect me_?

 

"You heard me," he growls.

 

"I know what I think I heard, but that can't be right. The illustrious, mysterious Harry Potter has deigned to return to protect me from a few people who have nothing better to do than send nasty letters?" By the way his face darkens, I think I said that with more sarcasm than I intended.

 

"I know you have an extra room. I've already put my things there. Good night." He rises from the table and vanishes before I can say anything. I hear the door close before I take a step.

 

I'm frozen to the spot as if unable to process what just happened. There are so many questions left unanswered, and unasked, that I want to demand Harry come back. The last thing I'm going to do, though, is knock on my own guest room door for Harry, though the idea of seeing him in a state of undress is tantalizing.

 

In frustration, I snatch the glass he was using from the table and throw it into the sink. Pumpkin juice sprays the counter, sink and cabinets and the sound of shattering glass somehow helps.

 

_This day has gone to hell in a handbasket_ , I mutter to myself in my mind. _And I didn't even wish him a happy birthday_.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

_Thursday, 1 August 2013_

 

The light pouring in through the window opposite my bed feels like needles being driven into my skull. Normally I close the curtains, but I must have been too drunk last night to remember.

 

Rolling onto my side, I pry one eye open to look at the clock. Half-ten. With one muttered curse for the time, then another for my hangover, I leap out of bed.

 

I don't remember my houseguest, though I don't suppose _guest_ is the right term, until I find him at the kitchen table calmly sipping coffee and reading the London _Times_. He eyes me suspiciously over the top of the mug he appropriated from my cabinets.

 

"Do you always wear that to bed?" he asks, voice low and rough.

 

I shove a hand through my hair to scoop it off my face as I mutter, "What?" Unsteady from my hangover, I nearly lose my balance when I turn to my potions cabinet. A hand on the countertop prevents me from falling. Though I don't use it often, the hangover remedy is at the front of the cabinet. It tastes like the bottom of a shoe, but works almost instantly.

 

"Do you always wear that to bed?" Harry repeats.

 

A flaming blush starts somewhere on my chest and works its way upward. In summer, I will either sleep nude or in an old t-shirt of Ron's so old and threadbare it slips off one shoulder and might as well be invisible for all that it covers. My only saving grace this morning is that I'm wearing the shirt. I don't know that I could face Harry had I stumbled into the kitchen nude.

 

Almost every instinct I have wants to send me back to my room to dress, but I have to send an owl to work first. I'm so late. I pull parchment and quill from a drawer, hastily scribble a note, then look for my owl, Marsters. He's not there.

 

"I took the liberty of owling you out sick today," Harry says.

 

I whirl around, annoyed, only to find that he's been staring at my arse. Stomping my foot, I growl and storm into my room, behavior perfectly suited to a thirteen-year-old rather than a woman of thirty-three.

 

After a shower and donning clothing, I feel nominally better. At the very least, I feel able to face Harry.

 

I still can't believe he's here. His sudden reappearance in my life will change everything. Hell, it already has, though I'm not sure if the nauseating jumping of my stomach has more to do with my nerves or reaction to his appearance.

 

I find him in the front room casting ward diagnostics. He's in jeans again, this time blue, and a white Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. I silently watch him cast the spell, monitor its effects, then note it on a clipboard hovering next to his right elbow.

 

"Good afternoon," he says suddenly, startling me.

 

"You still haven't told me why you're here," I reply, something in my voice startling close to a pout.

 

He turns to face me. I have the brief thought that it's a shame his eyes were hidden so long by those hideous glasses. That thought wars with relief that his eyes were hidden so long by those hideous glasses. Unfettered, they're deadly. One eyebrow raised, he gracefully settles himself in the same chair he hid in last night, leaving the sofa for me. The clipboard settles on the table between us.

 

He leans forward, elbows on knees, attention focused on me. "I did tell you. You didn't believe me."

 

Before I can stop myself, I both scoff and roll my eyes. "I'm only a minor cog in a big wheel. I'm not getting death threats."

 

At this, he leans back, almost amused. Shifting to rest one booted foot against the opposite knee, he moves his elbows to the arms of the chair, steeples his fingers under his chin and regards me with derision.

 

"Hermione, you're very smart about most things, but very stupid about this." I bristle, understandably I'd hope, as he continues. "You are more than just a cog. You underestimate your place in the Ministry and your value to it. You might be in a small office in a small department, but your political clout far outweighs your ability to accomplish anything in the bureaucracy."

 

His words offset a bit of my hurt and anger. "What does that have to do with anything?"

 

He sighs heavily. "Are you being deliberately obtuse?" This conversation is oddly twisted with our roles reversed, it seems. I narrow my eyes at him and cross my arms over my chest. After shoving both hands through his hair in frustration, he glares at me. "Hermione, you're a war hero. Even though you can't seem to get any laws passed, your opinion means more than you think to many people. You've hacked off more than a few of them and they're threatening to kill you before your next bill comes up for a vote."

 

"What difference would that make?" I'm not trying to be 'deliberately obtuse' but I just can't see how my opinion makes that much of a difference. I've labored in my department for years without accomplishing anything, so why does my latest piece of legislation regarding werewolves threaten people?

 

Harry looks as if he wants to strangle me. He leans forward once again and I'm once again disconcerted by his naked green eyes. I feel as if he can see deep inside me, deep enough to find places I don't want uncovered.

 

"Apparently you've enraged the right people," he says with heavy sarcasm. "The latest threat had enough details of your life, including where you live, that I was assigned to protect you."

 

I blink. He was _assigned_ to protect me? By whom? Who received the threat? Why haven't I been told I've been receiving threats? Has someone been reading my mail? Is it being screened? How did they know where I lived?

 

"What the hell is going on, Harry?" I demand finally, not asking all the other questions in my head.

 

He finally smiles for the first time. That smile is nearly as deadly as his eyes. It crinkles the corners of his eyes and reminds me of when we were children. When we were children, though, I didn't have this visceral awareness of him, despite the kiss he gave me before I told him Ron and I were engaged.

 

"I'm surprised it's taken this long to ask me." He's amused, damn him.

 

"Are you going to tell me?"

 

"Ask."

 

I want to strangle him and he knows it. Either that or kiss him. _Where did that thought come from?_

 

"Fine. What have you been doing for the last fifteen years? Where did you vanish to? Why did you vanish? Why did you -- no, you told me why you came back, even if I don't believe it."

 

I lean forward, mimicking his stance. He notes it with a wry smile before talking.

 

"I can't tell you exactly what I do." He holds a hand up to forestall my objections. "It's darker than top secret."

 

I raise my eyebrows. "James Bond?"

 

"Something like that," he responds seriously, ignoring my joking tone. "I was recruited not long after I killed Voldemort." He holds his hand up again. "Let me tell, then you can ask questions." I have to sit on my hands so I don't revert to childhood and thrust my arm into the air like the annoying swot I was.

 

"It was actually Moody who acted as liaison between the Ministry and the Muggle government. He'd noticed I took to the physical training and had a talent for killing beyond Voldemort." He stops and sighs heavily, shoving his hands through his hair. "After you told me you and Ron were engaged, I didn't know where I fit any longer."

 

I say nothing, but my heart weeps. I'd told him we were engaged after he pulled me aside a few days after the final battle to kiss me like Rhett kissed Scarlett. To say I've had guilt ever since would be something of an understatement.

 

"When I was offered a place in the SAS, I took it."

 

My eyes widen in surprise. "You were seventeen."

 

He grins, self-deprecatingly this time. "I told you, they thought I was good. I still had to survive all their training courses, but after what the Order put me through, the SAS was easy. Once you've had Mad-Eye Moody casting the Killing Curse at your head, being shot at is a cakewalk.

 

"Once I had my commission, Moody then cross-trained me in something akin to the Wizarding version of the SAS. To the best of my knowledge, I'm the only man in both armies."

 

The physical training would account for his physique. The physique I can't keep my eyes off of, damn my libido. I still want to rail at him for his disappearance, but his story explains quite a bit of why he wasn't in contact. In my mind, I still pout to myself that he could have at least called, if not owled.

 

Freeing a hand from under my thigh, I make a sweeping motion toward him. "And that's why you're my bodyguard?"

 

He cocks his head to one side. "What I've been told is that the threat against you is very credible. Given that you are frequently in the Muggle world and I have the skills necessary to both function there and protect you, I was assigned."

 

"That sounds awfully cold, Harry," I say, frost lacing my own voice. "Is that the only reason?"

 

He straightens and raises his eyebrows. "Do you think I've been carrying a torch for you all these years?"

 

Put that way, it does sound stupid. "No, but that's not what I meant."

 

"Explain it to me, Hermione," he growls. "You were always good at that."

 

I open my mouth for a witty comeback, but snap it shut just as quickly. Standing, I smooth my shirt down for want of something better to do with my hands, then say, "I'm going to do paperwork."

 

As I leave the room, I'm quite sure I hear Harry mutter, "Fuck."

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

_Friday, 2 August 2013_

 

I manage to make it in to work and avoid Harry. I don't know how he'll take it that I left my flat before the sun was barely off the horizon given that he's supposed to be protecting me.

 

I don't like the idea of needing a bodyguard. I don't like the idea of someone screening my post. I'm completely uncomfortable with nearly every aspect of what's going on in my life, which should warn me right there. Not being in control drives me mad.

 

It therefore doesn't surprise me that he's standing in the doorway of my office just as I'm ready to break for lunch. His arms are crossed over his chest and he's dressed all in black. I'm so distracted by his anger at me that it takes several minutes for me to realize he has a glamour on to disguise his face. He's made himself, from the neck up, very nondescript. From the neck down, it's the same body I admired yesterday.

 

"You're a slippery one, Ms. Granger," he says finally.

 

I stand, snap my briefcase shut, then attempt to brush past him. All it takes to stop me is his arm braced across the doorway. I glare at him, but it makes no difference.

 

"Harry," I growl.

 

Before I can continue, he cuts me off. "I am your bodyguard, not Harry. While I'm on duty, I'm John Spencer."

 

'Harry Potter' _would_ be a bit too recognizable, I suppose. And, with the glamour, no one would recognize him at all. Except me.

 

"John –"

 

Before I can continue, he cuts me off. "Spencer."

 

I want to strangle him so much that I can imagine wrapping my hands around his throat and squeezing. My fingers twitch.

 

Bringing myself under control, I spit, "Spencer, get the hell out of my way."

 

"You don't get it, do you?" he says, bending to whisper sibilantly in my ear. "I'm your _bodyguard_. That means I go where you go, when you go. You do not sneak out before dawn pretending I can't hear you."

 

He straightens, takes my wrist firmly, nods to Charlotte and leads me out the door. Though fear is there, a dark, reluctant arousal filters through me at his treatment. He is definitely no longer the boy I knew, but the man is even more fascinating. I knew the boy well, but am discovering I don't know the man at all.

 

We find out way to a small pub in Muggle London. The only words we exchange until our food is ready are with the staff when we order. We find seats in silence. Only then does he release my wrist.

 

I eat in silence, glaring at him when he's not looking. He's once again positioned himself so he the wall is at his back and he can see nearly the entire pub. I move my chair slightly so I have more to look at than just him.

 

"How long will this go on?" I ask once I've finished my fish and chips.

 

He turns his gaze on me, no less deadly with brown eyes than green. One eyebrow twitches upward briefly. In a bland voice, he retorts, "How long will _what_ go on? The glamour? Your snit? The job? I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, Ms. Granger."

 

It seems ironic to me that, despite the fights I had with Ron, I never wanted to kill him. I'm having definite homicidal urges toward Harry.

 

"You know what I mean," I grind out between gritted teeth.

 

He grins. "Yes, I do. However, getting you angry is so easy."

 

I make a noise somewhere between a growl and a huff, stand, grab my bag and turn on my heel to leave. The return of Harry's iron grip around my wrist stops me cold. My parents would cringe in horror to hear the way I'm grinding my teeth, yet the idea of killing Harry and eating his bones is quite tempting.

 

He deftly moves his hand to my elbow, but the grip doesn't ease. Grimly, it occurs to me that a man gripping a woman's elbow is less obvious than a death-grip on her wrist. He steers us out the door and back onto the street. We're nearly a block away before I realize he's steering me in a direction opposite the Leaky Cauldron.

 

"There's someone following us," he says out the side of his mouth.

 

"Really?" There's a spurt of hope inside me that this whole charade might be over and... _and what, Hermione? Back to your pointless life?_ If I could growl at my inner voice, I would.

 

At the mouth of an alley, Harry pulls me inside. I don't have time to protest before he shoves me against the wall and ranges himself over me. The functioning part of my brain tells me that, from the street, we appear to be having an _interlude_ ; the remaining majority is incoherent at Harry's closeness and sheer physical presence.

 

"Put your arms around me," he orders. The sibilance of his voice makes me shiver.

 

"What?" I despise being rendered stupid by a man.

 

"Do it, Hermione!"

 

Responding more to the command in his tone than anything else, I wrap my arms around him. At the feel of him, the solid mass of muscle he's become, I want to debase myself and moan. I don't, but it's a near thing. Self-loathing filters into my lust-addled brain. Though there were more than a few times with Ron after which we had to repair furniture or, after one particularly memorable encounter, replace a kitchen we'd set on fire, I never once felt so at the mercy of my hormones. I find it humiliating.

 

"Move your arms a bit, pretend you're kissing me." A shudder runs through me at the sensation of his breath against my neck, but I manage to follow his orders.

 

I sense, out of the corner of my eye, Harry moving his head a bit -- mimicking kissing me, I'd presume -- but am too distracted by the feel of him under my hands to pay attention.

 

"You can stop now," he says a moment later. I ignore him. "Hermione, stop."

 

As if just hearing him, I release him. He backs away, looking at me somewhat suspiciously. A nervous smile touches my mouth before I can stop it. The last thing I need to do is become entangled in him, despite feeling like a moth to his flame. The sensation dispels all intelligent hope that I can rise above my purely feminine need to simper and feel dainty. Nauseating, really.

 

"He's gone," Harry says finally.

 

I nod stupidly, willing my brain to kick back into gear and dispel the cotton that's taken residence between my ears.

 

"What was that about?" I ask finally.

 

He takes a long step back, giving himself enough room to pace. In a very Harry gesture, he cards his hand through his hair as he paces. Watching him move is male poetry in motion, damn him.

 

I wonder if I should check myself for a love potion or spell. My behavior of the last two days is atypical and disturbing. I don't like feeling like a walking hormone. I should be above that.

 

"Whomever it was that followed you was persistent," he answers finally. "I managed to tag him, but I don't expect much to come of it." He sounds frustrated with himself, so I smile. He narrows his eyes at me and asks archly, "What do you find so amusing?"

 

"You're fallible," I answer with a grin.

 

To my relief, he grins as well. "It seems there was a time I would take heart you were fallible as well, Little Miss Know-It-All."

 

I sober at that. "Things have changed." I may know everything I need to from a book, but practical application of that has been a failure. As examples, witness my divorce -- for which Molly Weasley has yet to forgive me despite Ron's protestations that it was mutual -- and my lack of any mobility, especially upward, in my job.

 

He doesn't reply, merely holds out his hand for mine. Ignoring the fluttering in my stomach, I take his hand, allowing him to lead me back to the Leaky Cauldron.

 

After that, the trip back to my office is quiet. At five, Harry once again appears, this time to escort me home. There are no incidents. Dinner is a quiet affair of Indian take-away and little conversation.

 

It should be little wonder I sleep poorly, lying in bed nude and staring at the ceiling for most of the night. I'm unable to stand even the sheet over my skin as I remember what Harry smelled like as he leant over me, how it felt when he was inches from me.

 

There is a part of me that hates myself for this. I believe it's the same part that thinks one day I'll reconcile with Ron on a romantic level, that once I can do that I won't feel like a failure. But that part is drowned by the unwanted attraction I'm feeling to a man I no longer know, a man who used to be the boy that was my best friend. Whether the attraction is just physical, is to the boy still inside the man or is to the enigma the boy became, I haven't fathomed yet.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

_Saturday, 3 August 2013_

 

I waken with the intention of slipping into the office at dawn once again in order to make up for missing Thursday. I should have known better. By the time I'm showered, dressed and ready for work, Harry is sitting at my kitchen table in jeans and a green Oxford drinking coffee so strong the scent alone gives me a caffeine buzz.

 

"I didn't know Englishmen drank coffee," I say by way of greeting. I hope the annoyance I'm feeling didn't make its way into my voice, but I'm terribly afraid it became sarcasm. I really can't be fussed to care.

 

He looks up a bit bleary-eyed, green eyes red-rimmed. Dare I hope his sleep was as terrible as mine?

 

"Good morning to you, too, sunshine," he replies grumpily. I smile to myself at his tone. He's still not a morning person, something that pleases me to no end; its some link to the boy I knew.

 

Taking a seat opposite him, I Summon a cup of tea. After a few sips I ask, "Am I going to work today?"

 

He doesn't respond until he's finished his coffee. "I'd rather you didn't. I want to take you to Diagon Alley instead."

 

I blink at him. Diagon Alley? Working that through in my mind, I gasp when I put it together.

 

"Bait? You want to use me as bait?" I can only hope I sound more outraged than I feel. Bait makes sense and would end this surreal world I've found myself in since Wednesday.

 

He quirks an eyebrow upward. "You take offence at my methods, Ms. Granger?"

 

"Don't take that superior tone with me, Harry," I growl.

 

Suddenly frustrated beyond measure, I stand and storm over to the window. Though still early, the scene outside is a fairly typical Saturday morning. Living in a blended neighborhood means I can freely have magic in and around my home, but it makes for interesting people-watching as well: a man across the street and two doors down is watering his front garden with his wand.

 

"When do you want to go?" I ask. I may as well give in. And brutally quash my disappointment at the thought of Harry leaving again, which I assume he will when this _assignment_ is over.

 

"Around lunch, I think," he replies softly.

 

"Very well," I say. "I'll be working in my office until then." With that, I turn on my heel, avoid him, and head into the magical extension to my bedroom. I don't know how much work I'll actually get done, but I have to try.

 

Five hours later, when Harry knocks at the door, I realize the attempt to work has been pointless. For the better part of two hours, I've done nothing but stare at the computer monitor. Three years ago, some enterprising Hogwarts alumnus discovered the secret of blending magic with Muggle electronics and revolutionized Wizarding society. The Ministry, of course, has been slower to react. Therefore, I have a computer at home but not yet at work.

 

None of that helped me get a damn thing done this afternoon.

 

After shutting down, I cross to the door and open it. Harry is already in his John Spencer glamour, but hasn't changed clothing. I sigh heavily, resigning myself to an afternoon torturing myself by being in Harry's presence when he appears to be immune to me.

 

He Side-Along Apparates me to the Apparition Point in Diagon Alley. The Apparition Point was established shortly after a massive Death Eater raid during the war in which nearly half the Alley was destroyed, many wizards and witches were killed while several others went missing and have never been found.

 

The attention I get as Hermione Granger is nominal. There are some who still approach me about the war and my activities during it; fewer still approach to ask about Harry. It was once much worse, especially the first few years after the establishment of Remembrance Day on the anniversary of the Final Battle.

 

It seems as if today will be a day I'm not approached. There are a few witches who eye 'John Spencer' appraisingly, raising my hackles, but none say a thing to me or to him.

 

"Where are we going?" I ask near Fortescue's. I don't think Fortescue runs it any longer, but the new owner never changed the name, preferring continuity to possession.

 

"Do you have anything on order at Flourish and Blotts?" He pitches his voice low enough that only I can hear despite the gaggle of school-age girls behind us.

 

As I'm sure I have _something_ on order at my favorite bookshop, I drag him inside. He makes a show of being reluctant, but doesn't fight my grip on his hand. His attention is directed elsewhere as I collect my order and as I shop. It takes me all of ten minutes to forget he's there like an albatross around my neck. It takes another five minutes for me to have more than an armful of books that I have to carry to the counter before I can shop further.

 

The attack happens at the counter. One moment I'm standing at the end of the counter the clerks informally refer to as mine, adding to my stack of books, the next I'm on the ground screaming and my eyes feel as if they're on fire. I reach up and scratch at them, pulling furrows into my cheeks that I barely notice.

 

I hear the scuffle above me, but the sound is distant, then cursing of the verbal rather than spell kind from Harry.

 

"Hermione, stop," he orders, trying to pull my hands away from my eyes as he kneels in front of me. "Hermione...stop."

 

I can't stop. My eyes feel like acid was poured on them, like they're being eaten away to my optic nerve. Repeatedly.

 

"No! Burns!" I scream back at him, kicking out.

 

" _Finite Incantatem_ ," he casts to no effect.

 

I kick out at him again when he tugs at my forearms, trying to pull my hands away from my face.

 

"Damn it, Hermione! Stop!" I writhe underneath him -- not in the way I've wanted to -- to get away. The pain is overwhelming. He sits on my thighs, pinning them down so I stop kicking. " _Stupefy_!"

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

_Sunday, 4 August 2013_

 

I awaken to darkness a all-encompassing, I'm not sure I've awoken at first. Slowly I take inventory of myself and my surrounding. Legs are fine, I can feel them from toes to thighs. I wiggle my toes for good measure. Arms are fine, fingers to shoulder. I wiggle my fingers. My torso seems fine; I don't feel any bandages or spell-residue anywhere.

 

Once I get my head, I begin to remember what happened. We were at Flourish and Blotts and shopping. I took books to the counter then --

 

Pain and blackness are entwined in my memory. Screaming, pain, curses...all of it blends together.

 

The smells begin filtering in. The distinctly sharp, antiseptic smell tells me I'm at St. Mungo's. After I spent a week here during the war when a nasty curse reopened the scar Dolohov put on me in the Ministry battle fifth year. Ron stayed by my side during that entire stay while Harry was in and out, hot on Bellatrix Lestrange's trail. The idea I'm back here is depressing.

 

"Hermione?" Ron calls from my side. Though I turn my head in that direction, I don't see anything. He takes my hand. "I'm so glad you're awake."

 

"Am I?" I ask, voice raspy.

 

Ron holds a glass to my lips. I sip eagerly, feeling the water soothe my parched throat. I'm not sated when he pulls the glass away, but what I was given will suffice.

 

"Yes, you are awake," Ron murmurs. I feel him shift to brush a kiss over my forehead. "Spencer brought you in yesterday, unconscious and suffering a Dark variant of the Conjunctivitis hex." I note the use of 'Spencer' rather than 'Harry', but file it away to examine later. "He tried to break it but couldn't. Neither could the Healers." His voice begins to tremble even as I begin to panic.

 

"My eyes?" I whisper, beginning to reach upward.

 

Ron holds my arms down. "They're being rebuilt. The only way the Healers could counter what you were hexed with was to remove your eyes."

 

Nausea wells, sudden and unexpected. I barely have time to turn away, over the edge of bed, before I vomit. While there are parts of my life and mind that are completely integrated to the Wizarding world, the idea I have no eyes, that they were removed and are being restored, is terribly offensive to my Muggle senses.

 

I think I want to cry. _Can I cry without eyes?_ Yes, I can because the tear ducts are in the eye sockets, not eyeballs. I scoff at myself. Knowing this doesn't make it less odd that I'm comforting myself with the book knowledge of the anatomy of the eye.

 

"Hermione?" Ron begins tentatively.

 

"Yes?"

 

"Who exactly is Spencer?" He sounds curious, but that curiosity is underlain with fierce protectiveness. Something about the tone warms me even as my confusion of earlier returns.

 

If Ron is still referring to Harry as Spencer, it means that Harry didn't reveal himself to his other best friend, only me. What does that mean? Is he only here for bodyguard duties and when that's over, he'll melt away again? Or will he reveal himself once his job is done? Is he back or not?

 

And why does it hurt so much to think he'll just leave again?

 

"He's my bodyguard," I answer finally.

 

"Bodyguard?" Ron scoffs. "He didn't help you much yesterday, did he?"

 

I don't answer. I'm still not entirely sure what happened today, so I can't answer the question if Harry failed or not. The attacked proved one thing, though: I do need protection. For whatever reason, I have someone wishing to cause me severe bodily harm, possibly even to kill me. Though Harry has said it has to do with my most recent legislation, I can't imagine equal pay for werewolves would engender a killing rage.

 

"Yesterday happened quite suddenly," I say. "I don't think either of us was expecting an attack in the middle of Flourish and Blotts, especially midday." _But Harry's supposed to anticipate all scenarios, isn't he?_

 

Before I can brood upon it further, or Ron can say anything else, the door opens. By the ratcheting upward of tension in the room, I know Harry just walked in. A part of me is amused by the irony of these two puffing up like peacocks to show off in front of me, but the remainder of me realizes Harry would have to care for me beyond the assignment for that to happen. I'm not sure if that's what I want. I might want just one debauched night. Damn hormones.

 

"Spencer," Ron greets in a voice made icy by restraint.

 

"Weasley," Harry returns, faint amusement laced in his voice. The silence that follows once again reminds me of peacocks -- or tomcats making themselves larger than they really are before tearing at each other -- but is finally broken by Harry. "I need to speak with Ms. Granger alone."

 

"Hermione?" Ron asks.

 

"It's okay," I reply quietly.

 

Ron sighs, then I hear a rustle of clothing and feel the side of the bed dip again. He brushes another kiss over my forehead.

 

"I'll come by again later," he says. I nod.

 

I hear four footsteps, a silence in which I imagine Ron is glaring at Harry, then the door opens and closes. The tension doesn't abate for several minutes and leaves me with low-level arousal flooding my system. Damn alpha males.

 

"Am I the only one you've revealed yourself to?" I ask suddenly, surprising myself.

 

A chair creaks, meaning Harry must have taken a seat. The silence stretches further, long enough for me to wonder if he heard me. I refuse to ask again. If he wants to brood, let him.

 

He shifts and sighs. "Yes, you are the only one who knows I'm Harry Potter."

 

Once again, a million questions leap to mind, all centered around why -- why he's revealed himself only to me; why did he take the risk of returning if he wasn't going to step back into his life -- but I ask none of them. This time it's me who stays silent.

 

"I'm sorry," he says into the tense silence.

 

I wish I could see him. Instead, I have to read him by his tone of voice. Harry has always been hard to read -- the Dursleys taught him not to show emotion -- but right now, without being able to see him, it's damn near impossible.

 

I lick my lips nervously before asking, "Sorry for what?"

 

He scoffs as if I should know the answer. "That you were injured. I failed." His voice is tight, but I don't know why.

 

"I'm still here, aren't I?" I retort, though I'm afraid it doesn't sound as insouciant as I intended.

 

"No thanks to me."

 

"What do you mean?"

 

Silence pervades again. Not for the first time since Wednesday I wonder how Harry has survived in his chosen profession given his tendency to hold everything close, to take things to heart more than he should. It should, therefore, be no surprise that he's taking the attack on me so personally. Then again, it _did_ happen on his watch, so maybe he should take it personally.

 

"There was so much blood," he whispers.

 

I have to strain to hear him. When I process his words, they shock me. Head wounds always bleed profusely; he knows this. I know I carved furrows into my skin, therefore there would be copious amounts of blood. As a member of the SAS, this shouldn't shock him.

 

Rather than indulge his brooding, I take a no-nonsense tone. "Of course there was, Harry. I'm surprised blood would bother you."

 

The chair creaks as he rises. I hear his footsteps as he moved from my left to my right, then he stops. The doorknob rattles slightly. I imagine he's standing in front of the door, one hand on the knob in preparation to open it, and looking at me.

 

"It's not been _your_ blood on my hands for nearly twenty years," he says. Before I can reply, he yanks the door open hard enough to slam it into the wall. His footsteps fade quickly as he hurries away.

 

"Well, that was interesting," I murmur to myself.

 

Though I'm trying not to read more into it than is there, the fact he's not bothered by blood but thoroughly rattled by _my_ blood means something. I can only hope it means more than his overdeveloped sense of guilt.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

_Monday, 5 August 2013_

 

My new eyes are the same color -- Ron reassured me of this when he visited this morning -- but I'm still getting used to them. The Healers assured me that my vision would be normal by tomorrow. They'd better be right because everything is just slightly blurry right know, as if I'm trying to gaze through a lightly fogged window.

 

My supervisor at the Ministry, Mr. Hardacre, visited to assure me that I am not expected at work for a week and that I'll be paid for the enforced time off. I thanked him, completely nonplussed.

 

The one person I have yet to see is Harry. 'Spencer' told Ron he'd be fetching me from St. Mungo's today, but he hasn't shown yet. Instead, I sit on the edge of the bed in my freshly cleaned clothing -- no evidence of bloodstains -- and wait. I hate waiting. I've spent more time in my life than I should waiting for Harry Potter.

 

He finally arrives just after lunch looking distracted and flustered. His hair is mussed, meaning he's been running his hand through it. And, sure enough, he cards a hand into his hair before meeting my eyes.

 

"Let's go," he says, biting off his words. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's angry with me. It's much more likely he's still angry with himself, though, and I'll have to deal with the brunt of it.

 

Hopping off the bed, I grab my purse and stride past him to the door. I throw a look over my shoulder, silently asking if he's following. He heaves a sigh, shoves his hands into damn-near painted-on jeans and follows. I can only think it's a good idea he's behind me rather than in front. Were he in front, my eyes would be fixed on his arse.

 

Neither of us says a thing until we're back at my flat. Setting water to boil for tea, I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from demanding to know where he's been for the last day and a half. The smell of coffee permeates my small kitchen, so I know he's drinking some of that coffee strong enough to strip wallpaper.

 

Once I've fixed my tea, strong enough in its own right, and settled at the table, I glare at him. I can't help it. While waiting for him this morning, I told myself I wouldn't let him get to me, but I'm failing already.

 

"What?" he barks, not meeting my eyes.

 

"You were late," I state. No questions about why, just the statement.

 

He squirms. A thrill of victory slides through me when I realize I've made the big, bad Harry Potter, SAS officer, squirm like a guilty child. I sip my tea. I've made my point and I don't need to say anything further. I'll let his guilt do the talking.

 

Tossing back the remainder of his coffee, he sighs heavily.

 

"Yes, I was late," he says, still not meeting my eyes. I raise my eyebrows and continue to sip my tea. The silent tension builds, but I refuse to break it. Sure enough, he speaks first.

 

"I was questioning witnesses," he blurts out, an embarrassed blush spreading across his cheeks.

 

I imagine his superiors would be horrified to know how easily and quickly he broke. My libido immediately makes me picture him beneath me, begging as I break his self-control. I shift uncomfortably in my seat and try not to choke on my tea.

 

When he looks up at me from beneath black lashes, I realize two things with the force of a Bludger to the midsection: one, my vision is now normal, and two, while I wasn't looking, he dropped the Spencer glamour. He fixes me with the full power of that unfettered green gaze. My pulse jumps wildly.

 

"What do you remember?" he asks calmly, sipping at another mug of newly-conjured coffee.

 

I almost ask "about what?" before remembering what we're talking about. I close my eyes and call up the memory of the attack again. It's still a jumbled mass of images and pain, which it probably always will be, but I try to pick it apart to report to Harry.

 

"I was adding to my books at the counter," I begin. A mouthful of scalding tea washes down the words. "Things after that are mixed together. I remember thinking I should pay for the books soon before I beggared myself. The next moment there was only pain and you cursing."

 

"Was your attacker male or female?" His voice holds a low intensity that I find both arousing and compelled to answer.

 

"I don't know."

 

"Think about it," he barks. At that, I look up. The expression on his face is as intense as his voice. The intensity, in fact, is disconcerting.

 

I have to close my eyes again, both to concentrate and to avoid that green gaze. Picturing standing at the counter, I try to remember further details to discern the gender of my attacker.

 

"About the same height as me," I think aloud. "The wand was shoved just below my ribs." I rub the spot on my back, realizing for the first time that there's a bruise there. I could heal it, but don't. I want the reminder for as long as it takes to heal naturally. "I'm still not sure of the gender, though."

 

"Did the person say anything?"

 

I rub the skin between my eyes, frowning as I try to dredge my memory even further and recall the exact details. The beginnings of a headache pound through my skull. I take several deep breaths to relax. Once relaxed, I remember what I hadn't realized at the time but that my subconscious obviously recorded: "She said, 'Bitch'."

 

"She?"

 

I open my eyes and nod. "The voice was female."

 

He nods. "That's what the witnesses said." I raise my eyebrows. "They recall a blonde about your height, within a couple inches, came up behind you, shoved her wand into your ribs and hexed you. She slipped away while you were screaming on the floor." He sounds disgusted with himself, though whether more for letting her get away or for letting me be attacked, I don't know.

 

I study him for a minute. There's something else. Harry rarely can get away with anything around me; or, rather, he rarely could in the past. In his current discomfit, his previous tells of biting his lip, shifting in his seat and running a hand through his hair are giving him away.

 

"What else?" I demand.

 

He sighs, stands and paces. I force myself to look away so I don't stare at the way his thighs flex under the denim of his jeans.

 

"I don't think the attack has anything to do with your job," he admits. The tone of his voice tells me he's reluctant to disclose that information, despite everything.

 

"Why not?" He glances askance at me. My voice obviously had more bite than expected.

 

"Women don't go for the type of attack you suffered unless it's personal."

 

"'Type of attack'?" I repeat. Though I think I know what he's talking about, I want him to spell it out. He confirms my thoughts with his next words.

 

"The invasion of personal space, physical assault, especially with heated words." With a heavy sigh, he takes a seat once again, sprawling in the chair. "Women usually go for the subtle, long-distance attack or a face-to-face verbal exchange of cutting words, not physical attack."

 

I raise my eyebrows. Though I agree, I can't resist asking, "What about a cat fight?"

 

His grin is downright wicked. "That's just for the amusement and enjoyment of men."

 

I gasp, amused and outraged all at once. Huffing, I throw a towel at his head. He laughs as he catches it. It's comforting to hear him laugh even as it tears at my restraint. When he's laughing, he tests my self-control.

 

Maybe I really should check myself for love potions or spells.

 

"You can't tell me you're not turned on by watching two men fight over you," he teases.

 

I stand, hands on hips, and glare half-heartedly at him. "I _can_ tell you that since I've never been fought over."

 

He leans back in his chair, laces his hands behind his head and props his feet on the table. I glare at his feet, then look up. He doesn't move them.

 

"So, you're telling me no man other than Ron has been interested in you?" he asks, injecting false levity into his voice as it trembles slightly with intensity. The question isn't as nonchalant as he would have me believe.

 

I don't give him the first answer that comes to mind, that there was another man interested in me: him. The last time he admitted feelings for me, and I turned him down, he ran away for fifteen years. Instead, I simply answer, "No."

 

The fun in the conversation is gone and it seems apparent to me that he's done interrogating me about the attack. Gathering crackers and cheese, I bid him goodnight and retreat to my room.

 

I can feel his eyes on me all the way down the hall.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

_Tuesday, 6 August 2013_

 

I awaken with the knowledge it's been nearly a week since Harry turned my orderly life upside down. I want to resent him for it. I may not have had an exciting life -- and I could say I had my fill of adventure before I turned twenty -- but it was _my_ life, the one I'd chosen, the one I'd carved for myself.

 

Despite still being on good terms with Ron and several, though not all, his siblings, I'm essentially alone in the world. My parents were killed by Lucius Malfoy on Halloween of what would have been our seventh year. I have no close relatives. Though the Weasleys had all but adopted me, that changed dramatically when Ron and I divorced. Molly Weasley, Ron's mother, was scandalized and blamed me for the whole thing. Ron tried to explain that it was mutual, but she's never been able to accept, nor have Ron's sister Ginny and his brothers Percy and Charlie. I get on well with his twin brothers Fred and George, and his eldest brother Bill, but the strain there is noticeable still. And none are family, truly.

 

I can't say my aloneness bothered me until Harry disrupted it. Now it's all I can think about, for good or bad, when I awaken.

 

A shower dispels some of the cobwebs and maudlin thoughts in my brain; tea should handle the rest. I freeze in the doorway to the kitchen, transfixed by the sight of Harry cooking breakfast.

 

Certainly we shared kitchen duties on our Horcrux hunt, but Harry was scrawny then. He certainly didn't look as if he pitched cabers for a living, as he looks now. Slow, liquid heat pools in my belly, stoking a fire there that needed no assistance. There is something arousing about a man who knows his way around a kitchen. And a man who looks as if he could eat nails without harm?

 

My involuntary whimper draws Harry's attention to me. He smiles that full, I'm-happy-to-see-you-now-that-it's-September Harry smile at me, obviously setting aside our tensions of yesterday.

 

"Good morning," he says, gesturing at the table. "Take a seat. Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes."

 

After returning his greeting, I Summon the cup of tea on the counter, heat it slightly, and settle in to watch Harry. He moves effortlessly between stove and sick and refrigerator. He's chosen a black t-shirt that clings to his upper body and loose tan trousers for today, which would be find except those trousers frame his arse perfectly.

 

Never did I think I'd be reduced to a walking hormone. It could be because I haven't had sex in close to eighteen months and _that_ time was a one off with Ron to relieve frustration. _Maybe it's not a love potion, then, but that I'm pent up._ There are times when a girl needs more than her fingers and toys.

 

Despite my distraction at his presence, I am able to carry on a conversation with Harry over breakfast. We avoid all the topics touched on last night, making for a much more pleasant morning than evening. I die a little more when Harry clears the dishes.

 

He returns to the table in his Spencer glamour, instantly shifting my mood from relaxation to tension.

 

"Where am I to be bait today?" I ask, steepling my fingers under my chin.

 

"Back to Diagon Alley," he states, his tone brooking no discussion. "Not Flourish and Blotts this time." He taps a finger against his lips while he things, drawing and focusing my attention there. Damn him. "More public, like Fortescue's."

 

I say nothing. Not only would it get me nowhere to argue, but I'm afraid my fear would show through in my voice. I hadn't realized I was afraid until he began speaking so matter-of-factly. However nervous or afraid I am, though, I'll still do it. I'm just not sure if it's more for me or for Harry to end the threat at this point.

 

"Is that fine with you, Hermione?" he asks, startling me from my reverie.

 

Blinking, I agree blindly, trusting him. I don't know what he was asking or why, but I trust him. I don't have a choice, do I?

 

We Apparate to Diagon Alley at lunch after two lackluster games of chess that we split winning. With a firm grip on my elbow, he guides me toward the Leaky Cauldron. We take lunch there at a table near the center of the room, highly visible from all sides. Bait indeed.

 

It's almost a disappointment when nothing happens. Well, beyond being stared at by the patrons. I hesitate to imagine the furor that would have erupted if they knew it was Harry Potter sharing my table.

 

Harry stands and takes my hand this time, entwining his fingers with mine as he leads me out of the Cauldron. A nervous, fluttering nausea settles in my stomach. From the corner of my eye, I can tell that Harry is looking everywhere at once, but so subtly I wouldn't know he was doing it if I weren't watching for the behavior.

 

We settle at an outdoor table at Fortecue's, a hot fudge peppermint sundae between us. I can barely eat for my nervousness, but Harry more than makes up for it by finishing three-quarters of the sundae on his own.

 

I can't help but grin at him. "Didn't have enough for lunch?"

 

For a brief moment when he first looks up at me, I feel scorched by the heat in his gaze. He quickly covers that with a boyish grin and self-deprecating laugh. "Never lost my sweet tooth."

 

I make a show of looking him over head to toe. "Couldn't tell."

 

He seems torn between preening like most men and blushing like the self-effacing Harry I knew. In the end, he merely smiles and tells me, "Thanks."

 

Lost in my own thoughts about Harry and a road not taken when I chose Ron, the hex catches me by surprise.

 

I fall to the ground in a melee with screams and blood. I try to grab my wand and discover my right arm doesn't work. Belatedly, I realize the cutting hex struck my shoulder. The blood I'm covered in is my own. Detachment protects me from panic.

 

"Are you okay?" Harry asks, crouching beside me. He ducks as another curse flies toward us despite it being deflected harmlessly upward by a shield he must have erected.

 

I nod as I try to scoot behind him. I can't cast with my left hand, so am now useless in a fight. Harry kicks over a table, reinforces it with a spell and shoves me behind it. I stay.

 

One of the patrons risks the distance and crosses from the shelter of the main building to where I am bearing towels from the shop. She presses them to my shoulder, chest and neck, telling me silently that my wounds are worse than they feel.

 

I drift a bit as I await either Harry's return -- I'm not sure when he disappeared -- or the arrival of Healers. The woman changes my impromptu bandages once. If I felt connected to my body, the volume of blood soaked into those towels would worry me. Then again, the fact I _don't_ feel connected to my body should worry me.

 

I awaken to someone tapping my cheeks and calling my name.

 

"Mmm?" I murmur.

 

Harry's -- no, Spencer's -- face resolves itself in my vision.

 

"Hermione stay with me for a minute," he orders. I blink and try to concentrate. He pulls a woman into my line of vision. She's blonde with a look in her eye that reminds me of Bellatrix Lestrange.

 

Harry waves his wand at her, apparently removing a silencing spell, because vitriolic hate spews from her at what seems like a near-deafening volume. She's shouting something about not deserving him, stealing him...I'm not exactly sure. Willing my brain to work, I squint at her. Recognition slaps me hard.

 

"Lavender?" I whisper. She shrieks, making me wince.

 

Harry Stuns her before turning back to me. Spencer's eyes are the last thing I see before slipping under again.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

_Wednesday, 14 August 2013_

 

My life changed two weeks ago and I haven't coped yet. At least that's what Ron tells me.

 

When I woke the day after the Sectumsempra attack, I was once again in St. Mungo's bandaged to high heaven. Before setting off, Harry had cast coagulation charms on me that, while not stopping the bleeding, meant I didn't bleed to death before reaching St. Mungo's for the potion-based counterhex.

 

And 'Spencer' was gone.

 

Ron didn't understand, and still doesn't, why I'm so distraught over Spencer's leaving. As Harry never revealed himself to anyone else, I can't very well explain now.

 

Lavender Brown was tried yesterday and convicted to at least fifty years on the long-term ward at St. Mungo's. Something happened to her during the war, something no one is quite sure about, and she cracked. She managed to hold it together until she saw Ron and I together during one of our weekly lunches a year ago. She became fixated on him, focusing on me as the root of all his problems because we divorced. Her flat was raided after her arrest and found to be covered in pictures, wizarding and Muggle, of Ron. Some of our wedding pictures from the _Daily Prophet_ had been doctored to show her and Ron. There were also pictures of me, once again, wizarding and Muggle, that she had defaced or otherwise mangled to show me dead or tortured.

 

I found all this out in a letter Harry left with Ron to give to me. There was not a word in that letter about the tension between us, or about him returning.

 

Today is my first day back to work and I've accomplished nothing. I glimpsed a different life, one without the mind-numbing monotony of my current one, but had the choice about living it taken away.

 

Blinking, I lay down my quill. _Did I really have that taken away? Certainly I can't have that life with Harry, but that doesn't mean I have to continue this drudgery._

 

I sit at my desk staring into space, stunned by my epiphany.

 

Capping my inkwell, I gather my possessions and exit my office. I say goodbye to Charlotte before walking down the hall to Mr. Hardacre's office. It takes me ten minutes to quit: thirty seconds to do it and nine and half minutes of his bluster.

 

Walking from the Ministry after that, I feel free for the first time since Voldemort's defeat.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

_Thursday, 31 October 2013_

 

As with Harry's birthday, there are rituals to be followed on Halloween.

 

The first visit is to Godric's Hollow to pay tribute to his parents. Ron usually accompanies me on this trip, but he's been occupied for the last month with his new girlfriend, Susan Bones. Learning about Lavender's zealous obsession made him question a lot of things, driving him to a therapist. It was there that he met Susan, who works in the therapist's office. She seems to be good for him and we get along -- she's not one to be jealous of his friendship with me, having known us in school.

 

The second visit is to the memorial on the Hogwarts grounds. Headmistress McGonagall has become used to these visits. For the first few years, she attempted conversation, but she realizes now that I need to be left alone while at the memorial. I visit on Halloween because it's a more significant date to me than Remembrance Day, and much less crowded.

 

Tracing the names carved in the marble, I proceed with my ritual of remembering a little bit about each person. Many of the fallen were more than names to me; they were teachers, they were friends, they were enemies. In all these cases, they were more than just a name and deserve someone to remember them.

 

It's dusk by the time I'm finished. I'm never fit company after visiting the memorial. When Ron accompanies me, we part ways at this point. Tonight, since I'm alone, I stop to pick up a bottle of wine. I will do my drinking alone, become maudlin and deal with the hangover in the morning.

 

Once I have the door unlocked with both key and spell, I set the wine down, kick my bag inside, and toss my robes in afterward. My bag tumbles once, spilling pens and quills as my robe hits the back of a chair, then slithers to the floor.

 

"Damn!" I mutter.

 

"I didn't know Hermione Granger knew how to curse," a deep voice says from the shadows of my living room.

 

Time stops.

 

Oh, I know that in reality time doesn't stop, that it's the perception of time that changes, but hearing that voice again makes everything seem to stop.

 

"Harry?" I whisper tentatively.

 

As if wanting to further repeat that night three months ago, he flips on the lamp beside him with one hand, using his other to flick his wand at the overhead lights.

 

I want to say he looks good, but it would be a lie. Well, not entirely a lie. His body is still as fit and firm and delectable as it was three months ago, but his face is worn and tired. He looks as if he hasn't slept in weeks, the dark circles under his eyes and slight sunkenness to his cheeks giving the impression of a fever victim.

 

"Harry?" I whisper again, unwilling to believe my eyes.

 

"I went looking for you at the Ministry," he says, standing and moving across the room like a panther stalking prey. I take a step backward, for all the good it might do. "You weren't there. In fact, you quit three months ago."

 

I swallow nervously and say nothing. This is not the same Harry that left, either three months or fifteen years ago. He's put a charge to the air between us, one I'd been hoping for months ago, but now know I wasn't ready for then.

 

"I asked around," he continues, moving around the chair and kicking my robes under the side table. The only thing between us now is my spilt bag. "You don't work for the Ministry at all, or any government agency." He kicks my bag aside. By sound, I know more pens and quills spill out as the bag rolls, but neither of us moves to clean the mess.

 

"You changed," he whispers. "Are you on some damn fool idealistic crusade?"

 

Despite the tension, I grin. Trust him to quote a Muggle movie. "No. No crusades, damned, foolish, idealistic or otherwise."

 

"I asked to be sent to Cambodia," he rasps, taking a step closer. He's close enough for me to imagine I can feel his body heat. "It's the monsoon season there, one of the worst times of year to be stuck in that hellhole." My breath becomes ragged when he steps closer yet. "Despite how miserable I was, I couldn't get you out of my mind."

 

Before I can say a thing, he ducks his head to capture my lips. I exhale sharply through my nose, a choked gasp, my brain stuck on _he's kissing me!_ and unable to process anything else.

 

He breaks the kiss, backing away far enough to slowly open his eyes and meet mine. The emerald of his has darkened to a deep jade just as entrancing as his emerald are. I watch, captivated as his tongue slides across his lips, tasting me there. A slow, wicked smile turns the corners of his mouth upward, crinkling the corners of his eyes, making him at once boyish and very male.

 

One more step has his body a hairsbreadth from mine. I feel hot and cold, aroused and frightened, all at the same time. Taking a leap of faith, I take a half-step forward to bring our bodies together, acquiescing to him.

 

My name is dragged from his throat like the last gasp of a drowning man. There's no time for a reply before he ducks his head once again.

 

There's nothing tentative about _this_ kiss; it's a kiss of pure possession. I dimly note that he's gathered my hands above my head, pressing me back against the wall. His tongue traces my lips once before slipping between into my mouth.

 

Just as I know, intellectually, that time doesn't stop, I know that my brain is not literally melting. Damned if it doesn't feel that way, though.

 

A whimper escapes me, just a small feminine noise of either contentment or distress. It sets him off.

 

With a growl, he slides his mouth to my neck, sucking on the cord there. He shifts both my hands into one of his to free one of his own hands. He uses that hand to frantically undo his fly, unbuttoning it so quickly I know he must be using magic. I barely have the chance to get the sense of him after he's freed himself before his hand is at my fly, unzipping my jeans and shoving them down. He doesn't bother trying to remove my knickers: one sharp tug rips the seams.

 

My arousal flares like a brushfire. His franticness is driving my own arousal higher. I kick my jeans and shoes off just in time for his fingers to plunder me.

 

"Damn," he groans in my ear, fingering my clit once before driving two fingers inside me. I arch against him, whimpering.

 

I'm ready for him. I've been ready since I saw him sitting in the dark. Smiling darkly, I shift to hike one leg onto his thigh, spreading myself for him.

 

He pants against my neck, his breath heating the damp skin there and raising goose bumps.

 

When I clench around his fingers, he groans, "Fuck."

 

In swift succession, he pulls his fingers from me, releases my hands, grabs my hips to raise me up then plunges his cock deep inside me. The uncomfortable ache I feel from not having had sex in so long is easily ignored. I wrap my legs around his waist, locking my ankles at the small of his back, and clutch his shoulders, digging fingernails into his cotton-clad skin.

 

"Hermione," he moans, flexing his cock once inside me.

 

I melt. I've been so on edge all day that his single motion triggers my climax. My entire body tenses, back arching and head thrown back, as I come.

 

Though I'm certain I'll have bruises on my hips, I smile ferally when he grips me tighter and thrusts.

 

"Fuck me, Harry," I demand, breathless.

 

He chuckles slightly. "Yes, ma'am."

 

Our only words after that are exhortations for more and harder interspersed with demands for him to fuck me.

 

His self-control finally gives out after my third climax. Pushing me against the wall, he kisses me deeply as he comes. The whimper at the back of his throat nearly undoes me again.

 

We slide down the wall, ending in a tangle of limbs. I grin when I realize we still have our shirts on, that we were so frantic for each other we didn't bother fully undressing.

 

He traces a small circle with his palm against my back, keeping me cuddled close. Finally, after so long, that tension between us has been released. I'm not going anywhere.

 

"We should move to your bedroom," he murmurs.

 

I lift my head to look down at him. "What makes you think I'll let you stay?"

 

That slow grin spreads. Grabbing my hand, he tugs it down to cover his hardening cock. "More of this says I'll be staying."

 

"I have toys for that," I retort, becoming more turned on by the banter than by his cock, despite how impressive it is.

 

"Ms. Granger, you were so tight, you'd damn near regrown your virginity."

 

Despite the truth of the statement, I feel duty-bound to protest. I huff and stand on shaky legs. His grin turns predatory. I grab my robes rather that put my jeans back on and pull them around my shoulders, using them as a cape.

 

"Bedroom," I order. He raises an eyebrow, laces his fingers behind his head and crosses his ankles. I swallow hard at the sight before me, my arousal spiking higher at his blatant display. Haughty should work better than awed for a response. Crossing my arms under my breasts, I tap one foot and glare down at him. "Bedroom."

 

He licks his lips. I bite mine in response.

 

Sighing, he rises as insolently as he can. He meets my eyes briefly, then whips his t-shirt off, leaving him nude.

 

Oh, my. _None_ of my fantasies even were close to the reality of his body. I'm entranced, especially watching his legs and arse flex as he walks to the bedroom. I follow, somehow feeling more like a puppy on a leash than a woman in control. Just outside the bedroom door, I shed my robes, shirt and bra, leaving me as nude as he is.

 

When I round the corner, I discover he's laid out on my bed on his back. One leg is bent so his foot is flat on the comforter. His elbows are bent behind him to raise his torso up. Those green eyes have me pinned the second I step into my bedroom.

 

"Damn, you're beautiful," he whispers. I can feel my blush start at my neck, working its way up and down.

 

I smile, suddenly shy. To offset the feeling, I stalk to the bed and crawl upward from the bottom of it. I tug his leg flat so I can straddle his knees. Only because I'm so close can I see the trembling in his arms at my actions.

 

Though all I really want to do is take him deep inside me once again, I force myself to study his body. I watched him nearly every day for a week, had him haunt me for three months, I think it's time to allow some exploring.

 

Skimming my hands on his thighs, I look down. He's scarred far beyond what I saw after the Final Battle. With a fingertip, I trace a particularly nasty looking silvered line a finger's-width wide on the outside of his right thigh.

 

"Where did you get this?"

 

He drops to the bed, staring at the ceiling as he takes a deep breath, presumably for control. In a raspy voice, he answers, "Gunshot. During training."

 

Trailing that fingertip upward over his hip, I trace a long, thin silver line along his side.

 

Without my question, he answers, "Sword. During training."

 

The muscles in his stomach jump under my fingertips. I use all four, liberally adding my fingernails, across the planes of his stomach. He tries to stifle a groan, but it escapes anyway, making me smile. Out of the corner of my eye, I see him grip the comforter tightly, tangling his fingers into the material and twisting.

 

Just below his ribs on his right side is a flat circle of silvered skin that looks as if it was once raised. Glancing upward at his face, I raise my eyebrows.

 

"Knife. During training."

 

"It's a wonder you survived training," I comment. His scars are doing more to arouse me than just about anything else. That his body is scarred, imperfect, makes it more interesting.

 

He bares his teeth in a nearly-feral smile. "The other guys looked worse."

 

Meeting and holding my eyes, he releases the comforter with his right hand, reaching upward. His fingertips first trace the old scar Dolohov gave me in fifth year as it curves down my collarbone, down my chest and over the top of my left breast. My hand flat on his stomach, I can feel his pulse is pounding nearly as much as mine at the contact we're sharing; I have to remind myself to breathe. His fingers shift then to the still-pink scar from Lavender's attack, starting in two parallel lines near the hollow of my throat and traces downward where the two lines expand to five above and between my breasts.

 

With him, I can display my scars unselfconsciously. With everyone else...well, I haven't worn anything sleeveless since I was fifteen.

 

I sigh and shift, moving upward until I straddle his hips. His cock nestles against me, throbbing impatiently despite Harry's seeming calm. When our eyes meet, I reach down and twine my fingers into his. I lean forward, bracing myself with his hands, then lever myself down onto him, taking him even deeper than I did in the foyer.

 

His eyes close on a soft moan. My nipples tighten expectantly, aching. Exhaling sharply, I clench around him, caressing his cock from base to head and back again.

 

"Fuck," he groans, eyes opening. "Do it again."

 

I grin wickedly and repeat the motion. He releases my hands to cup my breasts. I arch against his hands, silently asking for more. When he pinches my nipples, I shudder and gasp.

 

For several minutes, the only sounds in the room are gasps, moans, and the wet sound of sex. The sensation that we've cocooned ourselves in here, hiding from everyone else and exploring each other, is strong.

 

Sweat dots his chest and elicits a primal female sense of triumph within me. I want to break his control. I stop my movements to lean backwards, bracing my hands on his thighs. From there, I begin to caress his cock once again as I dig my fingernails into his skin. He grips my thighs tightly, twitching with each clench around the head of his cock.

 

"You're evil, Hermione," he hisses. I merely grin. In response, he moves one hand to where we're joined and flicks my clit. I shudder violently, holding off my climax only by sheer will.

 

Since backwards isn't working, I fling myself forward, bracing my hands on his shoulders and trapping his hand between us. I suck on his neck, tasting the salty sweat there, feeling his pulse throb. He groans even as he flips us over.

 

My arousal spikes yet again at his move of domination. As with earlier, I wrap my legs around his waist and grip his shoulders. Rising on his elbows, he ducks his head to suckle me. Feeling violent, I lift my head to bite his shoulder even as I claw my fingernails down his back. Any tenderness flees and our lovemaking turns violent. He drives into me ruthlessly, shaking the bed enough to slam the headboard into the wall. I clutch him, using fingernails and teeth on his body, feeling feral.

 

It's all over for me when he bites the juncture of neck and shoulder. I clench tightly around his cock, dig my fingernails into his back and come. He lasts only a moment longer, driving as deeply into me as he can, groaning his climax.

 

We lie on the bed, stunned and unmoving until he falls beside me. Panting and sweating, I feel better than I have in a very long time.

 

I lick my dry lips before speaking. "Couldn't get me off your mind, hmm?"

 

"Wench," he mutters, unmoving.

 

I grin. Nothing will be the same again and that doesn't bother me at all.


End file.
